


One Misty Night

by The_Plaid_Slytherin



Category: Original Work
Genre: Fantasy, Gen, Ghosts, Knights - Freeform, Princes, Trick or Treat 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-17 09:03:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8138311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Plaid_Slytherin/pseuds/The_Plaid_Slytherin
Summary: Keever did not expect to find anyone in the crumbling old castle, least of all a slightly confused ghost.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kayisaway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayisaway/gifts).



> Happy Halloween, kayisaway! I hope you like this! :) (Characters I intended from the tag set were Loyal Knight and Prince.)

The full moon was bright enough to light his way so Keever had not lit his lantern as he picked his way up the slope. Most people would probably be put off by a misty, moonlit night so close to All-Hallow, but Keever didn't hold with those kinds of old-fashioned superstitions. 

_More treasure for me then_ , he thought, and he found himself whistling a jaunty tune as he ducked under the tree branches that seemed to reach for him. It wasn't that Keever was an unscrupulous treasure-hunter. No, nothing of the sort. In fact, Keever was a knight. An absolute genuine knight—it didn't matter that he had no formal training and wasn't of significant birth (as far as he knew). He'd been knighted, which was what mattered. 

At least, that should have been all that mattered. The people he might have served—all those lords and kings and merchant-princes—they wanted knights with proper training and credentials, and Keever didn't have those. All he had was a dented shield, a skittish horse, and a sword. At least the sword had nothing wrong with it, though it was a heavy weight on his back as he plodded up the hill. 

If nobody was going to hire him, who could fault him for going after a little treasure every now and then?

He stepped through the crumbling arch into the castle ruins. He wasn't the least bit afraid of what he might find there. The worst he might encounter was a few rats. He didn't expect predators, but he certainly had more to fear from the living than from the dead. 

**

Joran was bored. It wasn't that he'd anticipated that death would be exciting, but it was certainly far more boring than life had been. At least, he assumed it was. Joran could only remember vague snatches of his life, and he couldn't at all remember how he had died. He supposed he must've died, though, because he knew he hadn't always been transparent. He also thought his castle hadn't always been in ruins. He might have remembered a hall with high, sunny windows, banners rippling in the wind, a father on a throne, but it was somewhat muddled. 

It was the middle bits that really eluded him, and nothing that remained in the castle pointed to any clues. Especially not other people. Joran had been quite alone for some time, though he wasn't terribly sure how long. Things were quite muddled when you were dead.

There was one thing he was sure of, though. 

Someone was in his castle. He could hear someone shifting around downstairs. He let himself drift down through the floor. At least he had the element of surprise. There was someone in mismatched clothes sifting through the contents of… Joran couldn't remember what room it had been, but he thought it might have been the chamber that had contained the crown jewels. Maybe. No matter what it was, it was _Joran's_ and no one else's. 

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked and reached out to seize the scofflaw by the shoulder.

**

Keever was minding his own business, poking through the rubble, looking for anything of value. So far, he'd chucked into his sack a silver goblet and a tarnished-looking plate that, even if not valuable, he could add to his mess kit. 

Presently, he was struck by the sudden feeling that he was not alone. 

"Who—" He turned, and as he did, there was the sensation of being plunged into a river in the dead of winter. Startled, he stumbled back, knocking over the rest of the dishes. They crashed to the stone floor loud enough to wake the dead.

Keever stood still, breathing hard, as the sudden noise faded. There was nothing there, he assured himself. Now it was quiet except for the last plate rattling until it stilled. 

He went back to work, stuffing silver into his sack. He could sell all of this and then he'd have money, which would make up for no job and no prospects. A man still had to eat, even if he _was_ officially a knight.

Then it happened again, the feeling of an ice cube dropped down the back of his shirt. Keever jerked straight up and definitely, he was sure, passed right through something. 

"Eurrghh," he said. 

Now he fancied it was visible, somehow, in the slant of the moonlight. A silvery outline of a young man. 

"Well," the outline said indignantly, "it _does_ take time to get your attention."

"What," said Keever, and then he decided to try again in a more polite manner, " _who_ are you?"

The figure raised itself up, which wasn't difficult because its feet didn't touch the floor. "I am Prince Joran. In my father's absenece, I am master of this castle."

Keever looked up and then around himself. The room was missing one wall entirely, leaving a gaping hole to the outside. Most of the roof supports had caved in and the upper floor was rubble around them. "A fine castle," he said.

"Naturally," Joran said with pride. "My father _is_ the king."

Keever couldn't recall a Prince Joran from any of the limited history he knew; it had probably been quite a long time ago. What did time matter to a ghost?

"So," he said, trying to make conversation, "what are you doing here?" 

"I should be asking _you_ that. You're rooting around in my…"

"Pantry, I think," Keever said. "Lots of dishes."

Joran looked disappointed. "No jewels?"

Keever ran a hand through his hair. "Not that I could find. I expect someone's picked through all of this, er, a long time ago." He hadn't known whether to say _years_ , _decades_ , or _centuries_ , so he hadn't, in deference to Joran, who was obviously somewhat confused. 

Joran huffed in annoyance, which looked even stranger on a ghost. "And you? Explain yourself!"

Keever was fighting not to laugh. That would have been terribly disrespectful. Joran was still a prince, even if he was dead, and Keever knew his protocol.

He bowed. "Your Highness, I thought no one was here. Now that I know how wrong I am, I shall take my leave."

He hesitated about taking his sack, but he really didn't want to leave it (it was a good sack). He was trying to decide how to empty it without looking awkward when Joran spoke again.

"You're leaving? So soon?"

Keever's mouth dropped open. "Do you expect me to stay?" 

Joran looked away, cowed. "No," he said bitterly. "Only, it's…"

"What?"

"Lonely."

Keever had not been aware that ghosts could be lonely. In fact, the opposite seemed to be true—ghosts were always skulking around deserted villages and, well, old castles. 

"Then why don't you come with me?"

Joran's face was indistinct, but he could tell he was intrigued, but trying not to show it. "My place is here."

"Suit yourself. I'll just be going." He was resolved to take the silver already in his sack. He slung it over his shoulder. 

"Wait!"

Keever turned. "Change your mind?"

"Aren't you a knight? Who is your master?" 

Now it was Keever's turn to look away. "I don't have one."

"Well, then! You should stay here with me." Joran floated closer to him. "I don't have anyone to serve me."

"That's because your castle has fallen in around your ears." Keever dropped his sack again with a clang. "What do you want me to do, hang around here and defend you from…"

"People like you coming to steal my silver."

"You don't eat anymore. What do you need silver for?"

That seemed to shut him up. Joran floated back down. "I'm a prince," he said.

"It doesn't seem like anyone else realizes that." 

"And what do _you_ propose?"

Keever shrugged. "I was going to keep going on like I've been doing. You could scare people, though. That might be useful."

Joran hesitated.

"Seems perfect," Keever went on. "You're looking for someone to serve you; I'm looking for someone to serve."

Joran touched his chin thoughtfully. At least, that was what Keever thought he was doing. It wasn't totally obvious when he was translucent like that.

"I suppose," he said. "I might like to see how the world out there has changed since I was alive."

"When was that?" 

"You know, I'm not entirely sure."

Keever grinned. "Well, maybe we'll figure that out then." He picked his way out through the fallen wall, his sack of silver clanking merrily on his back. He trusted Joran was following. There seemed to be a bit of a shimmer in the mist next to him. 

And then something icy shot through his upper arm.

"D-don't do that."

"Sorry." 

Keever looked up at where he suspected Joran's face was. "You're not." 

In the moonlight, there was what might have been a silvery smile. Or maybe it was just the fog.


End file.
